For Your Pleasure

Zombie Nation

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 14:09:00 -0400

So in the comments of the last zombie post (where you pick one weapon, song, and famous ally to fight zombies with), Than and Rawb decided to flip the script and come up with the worst combination, which is actually a far more interesting question. Here’s Than’s:
1. A discrete shiv fashioned from a toothbrush, prison-style
2. “You’re Beautiful” - James Blunt
3. That guy from What The Buck
And here’s Rawb’s:
1. Whatever the type of laser is that removes tattoos over a number of sittings.
2. “La Isla Bonita”- Madonna
3. David Spade
Great selections across the board, both providing unique nightmare scenarios. It was tough, but i think i’ve come up with one that’s just as terrible as either one of those two:
1. The sock Homey the Clown hit people with
2. “Waiting on the World to Change” - John Mayer
3. Abigail Breslin
Let’s see if you can top that.
For the best combination, I would go with a Sam Elliott/Scott Glenn duo or amalgam using gigantic bowling balls capable of mowing over all the zombies and squishing their noggins to bloody bits. We’d high five each other in victory while Gregg Allman’s “I’m No Angel” plays in the background. Really, this fantasy is not germane to fighting zombies but so be it.
In the worst-case scenario, my partner would be Diablo Cody. She’d be too busy rattling off all the Romero references she could think of and then devising appropriate puns to sass off to each brain-mauling member of the undead, that we would be killed instaneously. Although hopefully it would be her first. Our weapon would be one cane toad ( I am deathly afraid of them) and that terrible Moldy Peaches song would be our lullaby into the afterlife. Or that “Zombie Nation” dance anthem.

Girl Talk

Thu, 19 Jun 2008 18:50:28 -0400

me: Hes garbage
he reminds me of douches in neon shirts
Joshua: hahahaha
me: haha
its true
its like oh remember when? Yeah that song killed
awesome!
fuck off!
just listen to the damn song if you love it so much
and make your own mix fools
its totally ADD
preying on our lack of attention span
and our love of pop culture referencing
its Robot Chicken put to music
and thus, the lowest of all art forms
quote me on that
Joshua: sweet
me: BITCHEZ!
Joshua: AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA
me: Its like people cream every time they recognize something from our pop past
thats why those shows are so popular
the VH1 programs
it instantly makes a person feel like they are part of something and simultaneously superior to those that dont get the reference
its all very self-validating
and believe me I am a part of it
but I think it really hinders culture from moving forward
its collective narcissism
we look back at a reflection that isnt even really us but we pretend it is
and no one knows the difference
Joshua: i agree with that completely
everything new is just something old repackaged
me: but instead of giving the past credit
we pat ourselves on the back instead
its disgusting

eatsleepdraw:“The Last Mistress”-JZLI’ve been...

Tue, 17 Jun 2008 13:36:15 -0400

eatsleepdraw:

“The Last Mistress”
-JZL

I’ve been fascinated by Asia Argento lately…

Why M. Night Shyamalan Is Better Than You and You Deserve to Die

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 17:22:43 -0400

He alone is aware of our insignificance:

“Where did the idea for movie come from?
“I was driving to New York and going down a country road with a lot of trees and fields, and it occurred to me that we are totally outnumbered, like a million to one, by plants and trees. Its so funny—we think we’re all that, and really we’re just this little scar on the land.”

Wow, if Mr. Shyamalan had never pointed this out, I would have continued to think I was all that. Now I know that I am ugly scar and need Mr. Shyamalan to bandage me with his soothing, cinematic panacea, The Happening.

He likes fucking with you and he’s good at it:

What is the message of the film? Did you mean it to serve as some sort of cautionary tale, or is it simply a thriller with an environmental bent to it?
Probably the latter. It’s like in the classic B movies: you take the paranoia of the time and morph it into an almost silly, dismissible thing. But then it sticks with you in a way that taps into your original paranoia. For that to work, you need to have this angle to the movie: “I’m not serious … or am I?” It ends up being a nightmare sort of scenario.

Well, I agree with one part of this statement. The Happening is definitely a nightmare.

The world wants you to die and you’re responsible because he says so:

The story never touches on why exactly the trees and plants are so upset with us, what triggers “The Happening.” Why did you leave that out?
That was always the intention of the movie—to have this open-ended quality—I wanted it to bleed out into the real world a little. For me, one of the great things about “The Birds” was that you never knew why it happened. By leaving it out you force the audience to consider what their own culpability is, to ask, “Are we blameless?” Because, of course, we aren’t.

And by “we”, he most certainly means “YOU.”

You can learn more from Mr. Shyamalan’s sermon by going here.

But if you want to know what’s really happening in The Happening, read this:

Without any redeeming characters, without any message beyond the obvious, The Happening is another step in the complete irrelevance of a filmmaker a lot of people, himself included, were calling the new Hitchcock. It’s pathetic (never scary, never particularly tense, never poignant), but it’s interesting as hell if, for no other reason, than that it’s unusual to see a picture that’s this much of an asshole, making no attempt whatsoever to simulate a single human emotion. Shyamalan’s essentially made a sociopathic movie.

Walter Chaw’s analysis of this film is dead-on. Strangely enough, most of the other reviews chose not to address Shyamalan’s creepy, sanctimonious and misanthropic vision that teems with such hatred for humanity, that the only indelible image is that of the director’s invisible, smug and ghoulish visage gleefully presiding over this shitstorm of a cautionary tale.

The Ubiquity of Nuno Bettencourt

Fri, 13 Jun 2008 16:53:25 -0400

Extreme heartthrob Nuno Bettencourt epitomized male beauty for a brief moment in 1991 when my nascent desires were darting so fast in all directions, chaotically racing onward before my body ever had a chance of catching up. Upon first viewing of the “More Than Words” video, Nuno became the target of my fickle schoolgirl affections, probably replacing that pretty dude from Jesus Jones.

And even though Nuno and I’s ephemeral fling only lasted as long as my fifth grade year, he perfectly embodied the physical type that I would continue to appreciate throughout my post-adolescent life. It was those long, dark tresses worthy of a purebred steed, those dark eyes that smoldered with adult secrets that I’m sure I could understand (I was mature for all of my eleven years), and how he gracefully stood in Gary Cherone’s shadow, humble yet handsome, secure in his role as background vocalist and eye (rock) candy. I’ve always liked the silent types. I was convinced that Nuno wasn’t quiet and aloof because he was simple but because he was so incredibly astute and profound—no amount of words could convey his worldly wisdom. He would communicate with the world solely through luxuriant hair tosses, and gentle strummings on his acoustic guitar. Nothing more was required.

It must have been last summer when I fondly recalled my Nuno. I was still in the process of working out my complicated feelings of shameful gratification regarding Criss Angel. What was it about this hideous Long Island pseudogothmusicianmagician that appealed to me? I knew that somewhere in Angel’s “Henry Houdini of cheesy Greek lotharios” charade, I could discern the dark, mysterious, dangerous, shamanistic potency of Nuno Bettencourt. To find even the poseurs desirable was so ingrained in my childhood; I was completely defenseless. And truthfully, this love of long-haired, dark-eyed, slightly oily gypsy types began before the advent of Extreme. This predilection has its origins in Val Kilmer’s portrayal of Mad Martigan in Willow. But that’s a whole other post…

So, yes it’s been nearly two decades and I still can’t escape my past with this Portugeuse rock god. His name is like an incantation that brings him forth into every facet of my daily life. For instance, he even has previously appeared on this blog because I discovered that he was responsible for the score for this worthless film.

Then, just yesterday I came across this seemingly random post on Stereogum (!!!) and this discovery was right after seeing an appearance of Nuno on VH1’s Soft Rock countdown the previous evening. This was all too much. And then there’s this quote in the Stereogum post from a 1991 Rolling Stone issue:

“There are lines you draw, Paul, no matter what you do,” Bettencourt is saying. “We could sell a million records, but if it’s all twelve-year-old girls who think that one of us is pretty, what the fuck kind of audience is that to have? Of course you want to be rich, but how far would you go, you know? Would you suck dick to do it?”

Yeah, that’s the love of my prepubescent life pretty much spitting on my
innocent infatuation. And he follows this up with showing himself to be a homophobe. Awesome.

This information coupled with the uncanny discovery that Criss Angel and Nuno actually know each other !?!!? makes me want to exorcise this hard rock incubus from my life. And then I find out THIS and wonder just who’s side he’s really on. I begin to have second thoughts. Anyone who is a friend of God is a friend of mine. Perhaps Nuno’s overwhelming presence in my life can be explained as his role as my guardian angel. That’s no so far-fetched, or dare I say it, “EXTREME.”

Addendum

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 23:25:00 -0400

In my previous post, I totally meant Rocky IV whenever I say “Rocky V”. I am just too lazy to re-embed the videos in order to correct this error. That is all.

Survivor: An Overdue Retrospective

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 19:01:00 -0400

Power-rock balladeers, Survivor, will forever be stigmatized as the poor man’s Journey if one man/woman does not bravely refute popular opinion and make a case for a band that accomplished much more than musically interpreting Sly Stallone’s sweat-drenched victories against Mr. T. I’ve volunteered myself for this intensive undertaking not only because I take great pleasure in championing the underdog, but because I sincerely recognize Survivor as a significant member of the 80’s rock pantheon.

In spite of their uber-generic aesthetic, they managed to appeal to both the male and female demographic by working within gender-specific styles that occupy opposite ends of the hard rock spectrum: fist-pumping fighter anthems and heart-throbbing love paeans. Yes, this is an erroneous approach because it readily upholds gender stereotypes, but nonetheless it is an approach that sets the Midwestern rock band apart from its contemporaries. Whereas Steve Perry aka the Voice of God and company reached their arena rock disciples of past (and present) with a homogenized blend of semi-flaccid guitar wanking and maudlin operatic stylings appropriate for both the bedroom and barroom, Survivor decided to fragment their sound and thereby avoid compromising insofar as an MOR rock band has something worth compromising.

Survivor wanted to be virile and macho yet sensitive and cheesy on their own terms. They refused to dilute their music into some innocuous product palatable to a general audience. Instead, they would indulge in hyperbolic representations of masculinity and effete maleness resulting in innocuous and palatable products designed specifically for their male and female factions. It was Survivor’s dichotomous sound that related their sense of adventure, their daring taste for dealing in extremes of emotion, personality, and gender masquerading. Of course, men who flexed at the gym to “Burning Heart” could also hum along to “The Search Is Over” (in private) and vice-versa, but each Survivor single operated similarly to an America’s Next Top Model photoshoot: it’s either “high-fashion” (for the ladies) or “male magazine” (all about the dudes).

This leads me to the all-important task of debunking the VH1 Classic myth that Survivor is a one-hit wonder. Hardly! In addition to “Eye of the Tiger”, four other singles topped the Billboard charts including fellow Rocky anthem “Burning Heart”, the intoxicating “High on You”, monster ballad “The Search Is Over”, and the fantastically wimpy “Can’t Hold Back.” Although those songs targeted at girls who think a guitar should weep rather than rock outnumber those that are suited to roid-rage celebrations, the two chest-pounders are so over-the-top that they remain on par with the more sentimental numbers.

The best way to get at Survivor’s greatness is to conduct a video retrospective. The coupling of audio with visual should, hopefully, culminate into a deep awakening to the band’s secret to near-success:

“Eye of the Tiger” (1982)

We might as well start with the most familiar. “Eye of the Tiger” really needs no introduction because when that first riff hits, it socks you right in the gut. It impels you to climb mountains, lift semis, fight grizzly bears, and scream like a wild, hairy man-beast. The video? Not so much. It’s a depiction of a quieter, more reserved masculinity. As the lights of a city’s seedy underbelly come into view, original vocalist Dave Bickler does also, looking like an urban vigilante in his beret and leather jacket. He’s storming the streets and his goon squad (the other geeky members of Survivor) join him, marching in time, on a crusade against the sordid happenings behind those alley doorways. Well, really they are just going to rehearsal but they are going to rehearsal with integrity and pride in their “will to survive”, dammit! Band practice then occurs in an impressively lit warehouse where Bickler sings his words about honorable combat with the most stoicism he can muster although he does crack a smile every now and then. Hey, even the fiercest vigilante is allowed a sense of humor, right? This also probably explains the band’s goofy performance in front of what seems like undulating cascades of aluminum foil.

“High on You” (1985)

I consider this song Survivor’s magnum opus. I can’t get enough of it! Whenever it pops into my head, I am so grateful and I belt aloud the histrionic lyrics about fantasy worlds and other romantic trash with gusto.The vaguely attractive Jimi Jamison replaces Bickler as lead vocalist and he reaches new heights of palpable desperation with this tune. Hey, that’s a good thing! It’s what, us, ladies want: a pathetic, well-mulleted sucker grovelling at our feet because he’s O.D. on our touch and is literally begging for us in the middle of traffic. Swoon! So, like “Eye of the Tiger”, this video also starts by panning out on lights but these aren’t the stark lights of an unfriendly city, these are the soft, golden lights of love. Jimi looks out his window, pensive and forlorn; those lights are his only sanctuary from the restlessness of his heart. And then, it’s a new scene with more lights! These lights are of a true-blue hue, a canopy of earnestness under which Jimi sings about the girl who stands behind illuminated glass. For the duration of the video, both “the girl” and Jimi stand alone in their respective rooms which look more like asylum dwellings than any actual domestic space and they creepily put their pretty faces to glass. Alas, they never actually meet. It’s just like Cathy and Heathcliff or something…

“The Search Is Over” (1985)

This is the ultimate fantasy for the girl that wants the love of a rock star, but doesn’t want him to actually, like, leave her sometimes to make music. It’s the middle of the night and Jimi leaves his blonde babe’s side to get some air. He walks like a solitary shadow in the night tortured by his lover’s expectations and unable to choose between his love of his music and the love of his woman. Eventually, he runs into one of his rocker buddies who tells him to “cheer up, man” and invites him to stop by and work on some songs. Weirdly, no explanation is given as to why his friend is roaming the streets so late at night. It just must be what artists like the dudes in Survivor do. Anyway, Jimi continues on his journey (no relation to Steve Perry) and finds salvation in a neon-lit sign that says “POOL”. Yes, pool is the answer to your romantic troubles. And what do you know? The entire goon posse of Survivor is out hustling the tables. Jimi joins them and refuses to take his blonde chick’s call. She’s shown intermittently tossing and turning in bed and then talking anxiously into the phone in her bedroom that looks like a set piece out of a Dario Argento film. Jimi is still reflecting and flashes back to when he first met Generic Blonde—she was in the passenger seat of some sleazebag’s red convertible. More tension builds as Jimi just can’t seem to decide between writing songs with his buddies and returning to his bed of romance. Guess what? He makes the right decision: he returns to the bedroom and gently caresses his love who instantly awakes. They embrace. The search is, indeed, over. The video preys on girl’s anxieties about men who establish their autonomy by seeking company of their male friends. Survivor believes that most girls want to believe that men are tormented by this conflict of interest and seeks to assuage female fears by returning to the girlfriend instead of carousing late night at “POOL.” Brilliant.

“Burning Heart” (1985)

This song might have “heart” in the title, but it’s a rather cerebral contemplation on East vs. West, the Cold War, and how the Rocky/Dolph Lundgren showdown in Rocky V represents something much greater than simple man-to-man combat. Revelatory. The band takes us straight into Rocky’s psyche, which is a scary and dangerous place to be. We learn that in his “burning heart”, his quest for glory is more of a national duty than a selfish desire. The band rocks hard with hands in the air and voices strong between Rocky V footage. What is that sound? It’s the sound of testerone pumping in your eardrums. It’s the sound of Survivor!

“I Can’t Hold Back” (1985)

I’ve saved the best for last. I hold this video responsible for all of my perverse fantasies stuck in the mire of 80’s nostalgia and my devotion to the gratituous use of fog machines even though I never saw this video until two weeks ago. It was like meeting an old friend, a true kindred spirit. Basically, pretty-boy Jimi and his Survivor goon posse are posing in a bookstore when Jimi makes eyes with a blonde who’s crazy ‘bout Elvis and apparently, lemon yellow footwear too. Suddenly, she is transported to a fantasy world where Jimi is her ultimate rock god. He pours his sticky, sweet heart out to her as she dances in the mist. Then, we are on a train. Because of the Freudian content, I assume this is Jimi’s fantasy. With his libidinal gaze, he hunts the train for his dream girl while some other chicks lustily look at those other geeks in Survivor. The girl and Jimi are reunited and for the first time that Interpol lyric rings true. The subway is a porno. Then, we return to the reality of the bookstore. The rock-n-roll fantasy is interrupted by those homely Survivor nerds that aren’t Jimi. Jealous of his possible conquest, they pull him away before he can speak to dream girl. Not impressed, dream girl hits the sidewalk in the opposite direction and like a Mentos commercial gone terribly wrong, by the time our beloved Jimi catches up with his goddess in the tangerine sweater, she’s already took her seat on the train and…the train is in motion! Steve Perry would never have let that happen. He would have magically transported himself onto that train and…

But the intention of this post is to elevate Survivor above their current status as Journey wannabes. So, in summation, Survivor proved that you can be both a lover and a fighter. It is this uncompromising vision that will remain their legacy.

Which is more a surefire sign of the Apocalypse?

Thu, 12 Jun 2008 11:41:37 -0400

The fact that sour-faced Lisa nearly won Top Chef or…

the possibility of some reality show curmudgeon’s victory not only destroying my evening, but potentially destroying my last vestiges of hope in humanity?

I am relieved that Stephanie holds the title of Top Chef but poor, poor Richard!

And now we return to…topics that other people actually care about

"AVC: Do you think the war on stupid culture is unwinnable? Are we headed for Idiocracy?JM: Oh,..."

Thu, 05 Jun 2008 16:48:00 -0400

“

AVC: Do you think the war on stupid culture is unwinnable? Are we headed for Idiocracy?

JM: Oh, that’s a good question. I think the smart people will get even smarter, and the dumb people will get even dumber. But I think they all will enjoy A Shot At Love With Tila Tequila, no matter how you slice it. You know, we keep eating it up. Some of the most intelligent people I know cannot get enough of it. That’s a dangerous thing.

”

- The Onion’s interview with The Soup’s Joel McHale

Cineplex Reflections - Son of Rambow

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 16:00:00 -0400

In all fairness, it was nearly impossible for me to not love Son of Rambow. It’s the story of two precocious and adorable English boys who make a film inspired by Rambo: First Blood with a brother’s camcorder. Through this ingenious project, an unlikely friendship is formed between Lee Carter, a sly and smart-mouthed bully-type lacking any parental discipline and Will Proudfoot, a sweet and meek dreamer confined by the strict discipline of his religious upbringing. Together, the two boys deal with the onset of adolescence and the lack of paternal figures, dead or otherwise, by invoking the honorable bravado of Rambo as a guide to growing up. And all of this brilliance is steeped in 80’s nostalgia!

Above all, the film champions the imaginative spirit and recognizes that often those who possess such a spirit aren’t active participants in those worlds they desire to be a part of—whether that world deliberately shuns them or they are commanded to block that world out. Therefore, it is up to the outsider to create their own worlds, communities, and relationships. Not only is this idea heartwarming, but it is also incredibly liberating for anyone who’s ever felt they didn’t quite belong, lost somewhere in their own head, and without anyone to share their visions with.

By bringing their vision to life and making the Son of Rambow film, Lee and Will and their band of grade school misfits find a way to fit in without having to resort to being someone else. Even though they are playing roles and creating imaginary scenarios, they’ve never felt more real or alive. I think this is especially true for French exchange student, Didier.

Didier’s film entrance is one to behold. The camera scans from his fancy footwear and up slowly revealing the epitome of New Wave chic: red leather, cigarettes, and one perfect peroxide streak. A group of English lads gape in awe and proceed to worship at his feet, willing to do anything to be acknowledged as Didier’s equal. He is just so “cool”! In a later scene that broke my heart in the best way possible, we find out that Didier’s popularity is relative and not everyone is his biggest fan.

All the characters long to attain some level of “cool”: Lee Carter wants to be as cool as his older brother (played by Gossip Girl’s Ed Westwick aka Chuck Bass); the school boys want to be New Wave cool and the schoolgirls want to make out with Mr. New Wave cool; and little Will Proudfoot just wants to be considered cool, period.

The film renders this idea of cool immaterial. It’s more important to aspire to “do” than apsire to “be”. And that’s a lesson not just meant for the kiddies in the theater. Director Garth Jennings wants the audience to fully embrace the idea of creating: create movies, create friendships and families, create imaginary landscapes and stories about fictional Green Berets, create yourself. The act alone is worthy of reverence.

After a longer than expected hiatus—partly attributed to an article about blogging that...

Mon, 02 Jun 2008 20:26:42 -0400

After a longer than expected hiatus—partly attributed to an article about blogging that everyone was blogging about, but mostly due to my own idleness and difficulties in overcoming my (hopefully) unfounded fears of indulging in narcissistic blather on this site—I’ve returned. So, stay tuned…

"If I were forced at gunpoint to name my personal Top 10 albums, I’m pretty sure Lust For Life..."

Tue, 20 May 2008 18:02:00 -0400

“If I were forced at gunpoint to name my personal Top 10 albums, I’m pretty sure Lust For Life would be on it. And if I had to distill what rock means to me in five words, they might well be “Sweet sixteen in leather boots.””

- Damn Straight! The AV Club’s Noel Murray gets it right.

Season. Finale. Tonight! eatsleepdraw: “I’m Chuck Bass”...

Mon, 19 May 2008 11:04:12 -0400

Season. Finale. Tonight!

eatsleepdraw:

“I’m Chuck Bass”

-JZL

Cineplex Reflections - Iron Man

Sun, 18 May 2008 16:27:59 -0400

I realize that I am weighing in on this one a bit late, but after three solid and satisfying rounds of bowling, I capped off my day with a late afternoon showing of Iron Man. Without question, Robert Downey Jr.’s Tony Stark is the perfect anti-hero hero for this modern age. Humor me as I unpack my ideas concerning why:

At the start of the film, Tony Stark has attained a certain heroic status as a dashing media figure: a loaded playboy fully equipped with intelligence, wit, and one helluva sexy smirk. Both his weapon empire and persona are available for public consumption. The military, the press, and the public-at-large all are invested in Tony Stark and freely demand what they want of him. They’ve all helped elevate him to his godly role and can easily arrange for his downfall. Of course, one can find the parallels between Mr. Stark and other real-life celebrities susceptible to the information age’s exaltation and subsequent denigration of anyone who makes themselves visible to the public eye.
Most superheroes’ aims are solely altruistic.Their main objective is to help the defenseless masses against the powers of evil that threaten them. He/she is a (wo)man of the people. (Although let’s face it, most of them are men!) Before his superhero transformation, Stark already is a man of the people providing them with weapons meant to protect them from outside harm. In some ways, he already assumes another identity apart from the “real” Tony Stark creating a facade built on mordant witticisms and a sense of infallible power: he is Stark Industries, a superhero of the military-industrial complex. The “real” Tony Stark, however, is found within the battery heart of his armored suit. Ironically, he wears armor as a way of exposing his vulnerabilities to the havoc wreaked by war, by the explosive devices which he has created. He constructs his alter ego as a means of rejecting the public’s expectations and doing solely what he sees as right. I can’t claim to be wholly familiar with the entire comic book canon, so I can’t say for certain if this is the only instance of a comic hero bucking the trend and building his new and powerful identity not just as a means of avenging evildoers or saving the world, but as a means of survival. Stark builds the suit primarily as a way of escaping those who’ve enslaved him and thereby saving his own life. As an afterthought, he wishes to stop the wrongs that he’s personally responsible for: the manufacturing of weapons that are killing innocents in foreign lands.
While Gwenyth Paltrow’s Pepper Potts is the ginger-haired girl Friday, the woman behind the “great man”, the elusive love interest of our studly hero, she also has enough self-respect to avoid his sexual advances and not just because it will leave both wanting more—which, of course it will and does! But she also doesn’t wish to jeopardize her career or her professional reputation. She doesn’t visibly turn to jello in stilettos under the playful smirk and puppy-dog, impish brown eyes of her boss. That, in itself, is quite commendable. Also, she actively participates in saving the world from Obadiah Stane’s evil plot for world domination/annihilation. She turns some knobs and switches and hacks into computers to obtain top-secret information instead of just hanging by her feet from some tall building somewhere just waiting to be rescued.
Robert Downey Jr. Is. The. Man.

All ideas herein are half-formed and not intended to offend any hardcore Marvel acolytes/fanatics.

Totally on Top: ANTM's Whitney! Yay!

Fri, 16 May 2008 15:58:00 -0400

So, I’m nearly 48 hours late on this one, but the joy is just as immediate as it was Wednesday night when full-figured Floridian (Whoo, Florida!) Whitney was crowned America’s Next Face to soon only be seen in those cheap and annoying “My Life as a Cover Girl” spots. Still, it was an overall victory for girls everywhere that like to both ingest and digest food. Or so Mamma Banks and her merry crew would like you to believe. More on that later…

As Cycle 10 neared its end, I tried to hold back the tears. But why should I, when the models themselves were weeping? Anya’s quiet, possibly extraterrestrial tears trickled down her albino cheeks. It’s impossible not to grativate towards her sweet, alien being.

The elimination that would reveal the final two focused on the outcome of the Cover Girl commercial/photoshoot challenge. Fatima recited her lines like the most gorgeous automaton ever created but delivered a photo that had her eyes watching God. The judges found fault with this, which led Tyra to dispense some idiotic advice on how to properly grin with your eyes by squinting but keeping them open. It’d been so long since we had witnessed these visual pearls of wisdom!

Whitney toned down her prom queen mannerisms in her commercial and provided a photo that was wide-eyed and retro and near perfection. Still, the judges thought she was “holding back” because of being beaten down from an early age for being of average build. Mamma Banks demanded nothing less than waterworks by coaxing Whitney into showing her “true self” which translates into a blubbering, blonde and beautiful mess. ANTM’s audience thrives on hot messes especially those who overcome any sort of adversity to show the world how drop-dead gorgeous they really are. Hey, this show isn’t just about knowing how to laugh with your eyelids. It’s about relating a powerful message.

Anya, our Tower of Babel on heels couldn’t seem to get a grasp on the English language but the wind tousled her hair effectively and she smiled that coy, nymphish Cover Girl smile. The judges seemed to think this enough. And let’s face it, it is. A model’s job is to let the “pretty” distract us from everything else, including an accent that can’t be placed anywhere on a map. Anya does a pretty good job of this.

Fatima was sent home because Tyra had tired of advocating African refugee rights and wanted to focus on championing her pet cause: women with booty. So we were left with the second coming of Powder and the plus-sized pretty. The two girls battled out in a VERSACE!!! fashion show that featured shirtless man models but no Donatella! Even though the show’s budget allowed for the models to showcase a REAL designer’s clothes, the producers still cheapened the moment by not letting audience bask in the dorito-hue divafied hot mess that is Donatella. How can you have a Versace show without Miss Versace herself?

Whitney worked it with all her va-va-voom while Anya’s walk was more ho-hum than out-of-this-world. After all the judges carping this season about Whitney’s fake personality and Miss America dramatics, they crowned her the winner. She then gave some teary-eyed interview worthy of a pageant show about how she had been teased for her size and how this was a triumph for women everywhere. While this is more or less true and I applauded this show’s satisfying and guilt-free ending, it was then revealed by the fab FourFour that Whitney might have been more of a fake than the judges were letting on. Apparently, she didn’t even try out but rather was approached by the producers and asked to gain more weight in order to enter the Top 3 as a curvy girl that breaks the mold and shatters those suppositions about the insidious and manipulative images manufactured by the fashion world/modelling industry. With this news coming to light, FAT CHANCE.

Observations Made at Last Night's Cut Copy Show

Wed, 14 May 2008 17:50:44 -0400

I counted at least a dozen girls in the audience with bangs perfectly frozen in place. Not a stray hair in sight. This phenomenon unsettles me and yet fascinates me.
Hearing Howard Jones’ “Everlasting Love” between band sets is both a joy and a privilege.
Cut Copy compels my body to move energetically even when clothed in leather and a stifling sweater while being crushed by the drunken, sloppy masses in a restricting space reaching infernal temperatures. This must mean they are good.
I love when Cut Copy emulate ELO. More bands should adopt Jeff Lynne and company’s vocal stylings.
Cut Copy’s lead singer Dan Whitford also apes Bernard Sumner without making it painfully obvious.
Cut Copy dedicated a song to Stevie Nicks. Therefore, they rule.
Cut Copy = Good hair, good looks, good and subtle use of unlikely influences (Fleetwood Mac, ELO, etc.), good tunes = Great, great times.
Upon leaving the venue, it was noted that those girls with immaculate bangs astonishingly still managed to keep all hairs in place. It should also be noted that my hair was a damp, flyaway mess. And I didn’t care; I wore my limp, disturbed tresses with pride —an indicator that I’d rather groove than groom.

Noooooooooooo...

Wed, 14 May 2008 12:04:13 -0400

alexbalk:

“Nicolas Cage will star in an updated version of 1992’s “Bad Lieutenant” with Werner Herzog directing, Edward R. Pressman producing and Avi Lerner’s Nu Image/Millennium Films financing.”

I have a lot of faith in the Vernster, but, uh, no. I’m not sure what’s worse: the possibility of seeing Cage’s wee-wee or the fact the EVEN Bad Lieutenant IS FIFTEEN YEARS OLD.

I recently viewed Bad Lieutenant for my first time and have yet to share my thoughts here. But let me just use a popular internet catchphrase to express my feelings about this remake: DO. NOT. WANT.

"Sticky as Lips and Licky as Trips"

Tue, 13 May 2008 17:46:34 -0400

I was one of those Cure weirdos in high school who thought that Robert Smith was the bard of young solitude for using words like “treachery” and “duplicity” as many times as possible within the same song. Under a canopy of glow-n-the-dark stars, I listened to Disintegration and my 9th grade soul floated from the bed merging with Robert’s wild, mopey howls. I was forever changed.

It’s been over a decade since I faithfully scribbled the lyrics to each and every Cure song in my notebook; the task took up many Friday nights of my freshman and sophomore years. While I still hold a special place in my heart for Robert’s lipstick-smeared laments, I’ve put away the B-sides, posters, and other dark and gloomy trinkets of my miserable past while indulging in the occasional listen to The Top or Head on the Door.

And then I listened to their new song. It’s reminiscent of the giddy pop songs off of Wish or even Wild Mood Swings and I am grateful that Bob and company have moved away from those seemingly endless dirges that bogged down their last few efforts. But the lyrics are still stunted and read like the poetry I wrote when I was 16 and listening to, hah, The Cure.

I’d rather remember how I viewed them when I still thought that misery was the heartbreak of a man-child in kohl eyeliner sitting alone in a dark room and writing music for the fragile hearts of teenage girls sitting alone in their dark bedrooms. Now I know that real anguish and heartbreak is a lot less romantic and a lot more lame.

The Cure at their absolute best:

eatsleepdraw: “Leighton” -JZL

Tue, 13 May 2008 13:17:25 -0400

eatsleepdraw:

“Leighton”

-JZL

"We’re the non-judging Breakfast Club."

Mon, 12 May 2008 20:27:00 -0400

““We’re the non-judging Breakfast Club.””

- Blair Waldorf perfectly capturing what I adore about Gossip Girl. It’s John Hughes without the moral conventions and with Ed Westwick doing a naughtier James Spader than, well, James Spader.